


brimstone in my garden

by sinteresting_facts



Series: Afterthoughts (WoW RP and OC Stuff) [4]
Category: Original Work, World of Warcraft
Genre: """hospitalization""" sel's in a clinic in a bed, Aftermath of Torture, Family Reunions, Gen, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Torture, Misgendering, Original Character(s), Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Trans Male Character, deadnaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinteresting_facts/pseuds/sinteresting_facts
Summary: Schaelarche has a sister again. And she's hurt bad.





	brimstone in my garden

Ironforge was a quiet city compared to Stormwind. The depths of the mountain seemed to eat up any noise from the forges, and the low roar of the lava-falls struck enough awe into the citizens that it was quiet. Warm, dark, and quiet, three qualities that were enough for Schaelarche to start commuting there to tap into the cartography scene in Dun Morogh.

 

Really, it was just a tram ride away, but the culture was entirely different. Where Stormwind had a bustling harbor, Ironforge had a steadily worked forge. Where Stormwind had an active and oftentimes dangerous street culture, Ironforge had quiet museums and libraries. Schae loved it.

 

But things had changed.

 

_It was his sister._

 

After Lowell’d mentioned her name, and Schaelarche had subsequently had a breakdown, Dr. Modan had shooed the both of them out. Lowell pulled her aside for a quiet word, and with the situation explained, she’d let Schae sit by Selrir’s side. He’d been given a stool, which his knees thanked him for, and which he thanked one of Doc’s aides for. He’d been sat here for awhile, holding Sel’s hand and watching the faint shifting of the covers as she breathed. It was more than he’d had before, he thought she was dead for so long.

 

Sixteen years he’d gone without his big sister. Sixteen years he’d thought she was dead.

The margin of error was too close for comfort, a single difference in how things had gone and he would’ve lost his sister once again without even knowing it. The margin was too close for everything these days, Balgory tempting fate, Kaine’s presence, Laicoris’…everything. Lowell appeared to be dead set on being in danger at all times which he knew wasn’t their fault, but honestly, it was ridiculous. Altruists.

 

Nothing seemed certain, least of all their lives, and while finding out his fucking sister of all people was still alive was _objectively a good thing_ , it served as a cold reminder of life’s impermanence.

 

He sat there, thinking about this and various other things: feasibly staying in Ironforge for the foreseeable future, finishing his latest commission, Lowell, the situation with the Dolls…his mind was running a mile a minute. If he was able to think about things quick enough, he could push them to the back of his mind, never to be dealt with again.

 

Of course, logically he knew letting things fester would only destroy him in the long run, but it was easier than facing things head on. He’d much rather deal with a reasonable slew of episodes than with a constant drone of hell in his mind. He had enough constant drones already, what with the Link, which still terrified him enough on a good day, and his usual head fuckery.

 

He let out a small sigh and, for the thousandth time, nervously smoothed out the topmost knitted cover that laid over Selrir. Schae rocked side to side on his sits bones, trying to alleviate some of the strain of sitting for hours on end. He let Selrir’s hand slide from his onto the sheets briefly, squaring his shoulders and reaching his arms overhead to stretch. He let out a low, quiet groan as his joints crunched an crackled with the motion. The sound of shifting leather armor echoed in the quiet clinic. For a building that must have heard so much agony, the walls sure held their tongues now.

 

Dr. Modan had told him about some of the crazier stories, little things spoken over tea when it was quiet. She’d gone home to her apartment nearby since he’d promised to look after her one patient. An aide was asleep downstairs, so it was just him and the quiet. His only constant companion, it seemed.

 

Schaelarche twisted side to side slowly, activating each muscle in order to crack his back effectively. He hissed out an involuntary whine at the dull, internal popping, which faded into a mild growl. Some habits never died, and yea sure he’d been able to shift for like, five or six years now, being a worgen full time for a decade surely left a mark. He’d managed to train himself out of most of his wolfish idiosyncrasies, but some were a cautious reminder of what he could also be. Pros and cons, those were all he was made of.

 

He almost didn’t notice when another faint groan mixed with his own. He froze, breath stilling on his lips. Blankets creased as the bed creaked with the sudden, small motion. He dropped his arms down, stool scraping loudly against the floor as he scooted forward to look over Selrir. He grasped her hand once more, gaze searching her face for any signs of consciousness. Blessedly, he was rewarded, and Selrir’s eye twitched. He inhaled a sharp breath, and grazed his thumb over the back of her hand, squeezing gently.

 

“Hnng…” Selrir groaned and tilted her head to the right. Schaelarche watched every move, entranced. His journal laid strapped to his thigh, but he didn’t dare take his hand off of hers now. He made a small encouraging noise, just audible enough for her to hear. Doc had _thankfully_ managed to repair most of the damage done by whatever had eaten its way into her ear canals.

 

Selrir coughed, the sound sharp as a whip in the quiet, still air. It quickly devolved into wheezing grunts as the motion shook her. Selrir weakly moved her arms, pulling from Schae’s grasp and trying to push herself up. Schae stood quickly, helping her into a half-upright position. He fumbled with her pillows, setting them up to roughly support her before he sat on the edge of the bed carefully. A few moments passed of Selrir’s quiet groaning and slow blinking as she woke from more than a week of being unconscious.

 

“…what..th’.. _fuck…”_ she mumbled quietly, the words slurring together, restricted by the stitching and swelling in her face.

 

It was at this point that Schae fumbled for his journal. He shakily set pen to page and wrote out the note he and Doc had prepared in case she woke up. He turned the journal around in his hands, and showed her, patiently waiting for her to blink into focus. _“Selrir, you’re in the Ironforge Physician’s office, you were found near death out in the Dun Morogh hills. You’ve been healed to an extent and cared for here, how are you feeling?”_ His hand trembled slightly as he held it up for her. She blinked for another minute, extensive healing, hypothermia, and unconsciousness having taken their toll.

 

“Ironforge…? Great, dwarves…m’ cheek hurts, fucker took a hammer to it…I think…” Sel glared at nothing, her eyes hung low with tired. Schaelarche was taken aback by their color, they’d once shared blue eyes, but hers were blood red now.

 

She looked up sharply at him like she only just noticed he was there.

 

“Wh’ the fuck are you? Ho’ do you know m’ name?”

 

He swallowed, a thick knot stuck in his throat. Schae looked her in the eye, relieved, desperate, and deeply concerned. Her eyes, which burned with aggression, also held a thread of paranoia running through them. He didn’t blame her.  

 

 _“Selrir, you’ve been unconscious for a few weeks now, Dr. Modan Stoneweaver has been taking care of you since the weekend–“_ A hand knocked against his, catching him off-guard. He looked up from his writing.

 

“Oi, hey–talk to me. None o’ this writing stuff,” she narrowed her eyes slightly, agitated. He simply stared at her, long enough that she just took the journal from him and looked at the half-completed note. She narrowed her eyes further.

 

“Ans’er my question.”

 

He supposed she’d be significantly more threatening if her eyes weren’t dead and she could talk properly. He gestured for the journal. She quirked her right eyebrow. He sighed, yeah this was Selly alright.

He opened his mouth and pulled at his lip, revealing the empty space where his tongue once was. It’d healed significantly, scar tissue mottling what was left of the base of it. He raised an eyebrow right back at her.

 

Her look remained the same as she passed the journal back to him stiffly.

 

He dipped his head in thanks out of habit and glanced at her softly, almost regretful, before dropping his head to write. She glared at his hair, not trusting whatever she saw in his gaze one bit.

“ _Sel I’m–“_ he hesitated a moment, not sure how to write what he needed to say. He crossed that out once, trying again on a different line. He scratched that out. Selrir hummed a short note impatiently and clasped her hands in front of her. He glanced up at her, noticing, once again, the family resemblance.

 

He flicked his eyes back down with a sigh and wrote, _“When I was 8 you grabbed my nice brown dress and shoved mud down the back of it because I stole the covers. When I put it on I got so dirty mom made me bathe in the creek instead of the tub. You did the same for the next three days until momma made you do the laundry for a month. Don’t ask me how I know your name.”_ He showed her the journal before he could rewrite it again.

 

Selrir read the page, then again. She stared at it for a long minute.

 

“Are you joking?” Her accusatory tone was laced with an air of pain and deep sadness, her sharp, tired gaze equally as telling.

 

Schae brushed his hair out of his eyes to make eye contact with her. He shook his head slowly.

 

“If you’re lying t’ me I’ll kill you.”

 

He just held his gaze, point making itself. He heard the rush of air as she inhaled a quick breath.

 

“……Rose?”

 

Schae winced at the name, and the soft creak of her voice. He’d expected this of course, but it was still a deep, weird feeling. He drew a line, providing a break from one train of conversation to a new one. _“My name’s Schaelarche Noonmark, I’m your brother.”_ He lingered on the page searchingly before just showing her. She was quiet for a few minutes as she read it, likely a few times given the amount of words on the page.

“…wha’ the fuck?” Her gaze pierced his, and he looked away, shrinking back. She scoffed.

 

“What’re backing away for, you’d be wha’, 20s-something? Fuckin’ grow a spine Roz.”

 

He gave her a pointed look and tapped his finger on the page. She looked down at the writing once more.

 

“Wha’, Sch…aelarche? Wh’ kin’ of name is that, Roz?” she asked as she leveled him with a disappointed look that only an older sibling can give. He rolled his eyes, and took the journal back from her. _“It’s Old Darnassian, figured momma would’ve liked it. Please use it, or at least just, fucking know that I’m not your sister now.”_ Enough people mangled his name daily, or shortened it. He didn’t care if she kept calling him Roz, as long as she knew he was her brother.

 

She read it, and then looked him over like she was reading him as well. She reached forward and grabbed at his chin, turning his head from side to side. He wiggled out of her grasp, squinting at her petulantly.

 

“Well, you certainly look like m’ brother. Ho’ the hell did that happen?”

 

He let out a deep sigh, fairly relieved. _“Long story, I’d really rather focus on your immediate health and mental well-being right now, Sel.”_ He passed the journal.

 

She ignored him. Another sign that this was actually Selrir. Her eyes softened as she stared at him more. He knew what she was looking at, what she was thinking; another question he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to answer today.

 

“Th’ fuck happened to you Roz?”

 

The scars around his lips, weighing down his eye, replacing his tongue…didn’t they tell enough of a story? He wrote slowly. _“Life happened, also torture. I run a cartography business, made the dumb decision of going out to scout a dangerous region alone.”_

 

Selrir nodded slowly at the page. She considered this for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak but Schae held up a finger to her lips and wrote, _“Don’t even think about asking if I’m alright without answering the same for yourself.”_

She laughed, but the motion contorted into pain quickly. She coughed again, chest heaving with a groan.

 

“Coul’ you…shit this hurts, painkillers?”

 

He nodded, and left the journal on her lap as he rose to get meds from the cabinet. He would just heal her, but he was tired, and he’d rather not cast magic on Doc’s patient without supervision. He measured out the allotted amount of pills, and handed them to her. He made a gesture that clearly meant ‘wait’, which she glared at, and ran downstairs to get a glass of water.  

 

He returned slower, padding up the stairs. _That was his sister_ and it felt like he hadn’t gone a day without her. It was overwhelming, the feeling of loss and fullness all at once, and it slowed his step for only a moment more before he hastened at the last stoop.

 

Thankfully Selrir had decided to listen to him, and was sat there flipping through his journal with the pills in one palm. His eye twitched, and he cleared his throat. She looked up at him, completely unconcerned about the breach of privacy. He crossed the room, and set the glass of water down before sitting on the edge of the bed and plucking his journal from her hands.

 

“You’ve go’ shit handwriting.”

 

He flipped her off before picking up the glass of water and gesturing at the pills with it. He looked at her expectantly.

 

“Yea’, yeah,” she said as she raised the pills to her lips, instinctively skirting around the tender sutures. He watched her, concerned. She caught his eye.

 

“Don’ look at me like that, Roz–,” She downed the pills, wincing, and with the guidance of Schae’s hand took a sip of water. “I’m the big sister.”

 

Schae rolled his eyes again and tipped the glass to her lips a second time, urging her to drink some more. She narrowed her eyes at him and sipped at it, expression softening as she realized how thirsty she’d been. Doc’s shamanistic water magic had kept her hydrated, but it was a different feeling to drinking. After a few drinks from the glass, she batted it away, and Schaelarche set it down once more. Selrir watched him, blinking slowly, every motion still delayed by a bleary haze. The medication would probably take effect in a few minutes, so he picked up his pen to pass the time. _“What happened to_ _you,_ _Selly?”_

 

She read it and shrugged nonchalantly, like she wasn’t sitting bed-bound after almost freezing to death and bleeding out.

 

“Mm, fuckin’, was trying to take the tram t’ here, had a huntin’ thing–” so, she really did take after momma, after all. “–som’ cunty death knight tried to chat m’ up. Nex’ thing I knew he had a bag ove’ my head n’ I was just...cold. I don’ remember,” she winced at her jaw. “too much afte’, only flashes n’ feelings.”

 

Schaelarche was frozen in shock. No way. Not again. There’s no way–his _sister?_ As the realization hit him his features buckled and twisted into horror. A shaky gasp wrenched itself from his chest, and she looked at him oddly.

 

“Ro–Schae..larche? Th’ hell is wrong?”

 

He tried to rein in his wayward breathing, cursing the sob that racked his body anyways. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye and took a deep breath, hiccuping on the inhale. He could feel Selrir’s eyes boring holes into his head, so he took another breath and pushed the horror down deep into himself. He wrote, hand shaking. _“I can only assume it was the same man, Sel. Who hurt me, and my fiance. He got you too. I’m so sorry, Sel.”_ He turned it slowly, and set it in her lap. She played with the edges of the page as she read, a multitude of emotions flitting through her tired gaze. She took his right hand, lifting it up to inspect the brace that held his wrist in place.

 

“Di’ he do this too?”

 

Schae shook his head. Selrir dropped the hand, frowning, and passed his journal back to him. She yawned, the sound turning into a whine as it stretched her cheek. Schae looked at her with concern, heart aching despite the hollow detachment he was trying to force in his head. Doc had managed to close the wound and set her jaw, but it was still healing, slowed by the near-death state she’d been in for awhile. She slipped a little from her seat against the pillows, and he got up to move around the bed and fix them. He hadn’t made it two steps before Selrir whined again.

 

“Don’ go, Roz.”

 

He looked back at her, and shook his head reassuringly. He edged around the bed and scooted up against her other side, gently helping her lay down again. He shifted the pillows around to be marginally more comfortable for her.

 

“M’ serious, don’ go.”

 

He paused, and looked down at her. She was staring up at him, a stern look in her eye. He sighed and patted her hand, nodding gently. He knew that fear all too well, of waking up, and not having anything to anchor oneself. He’d better stay in Ironforge then, for the time being, Dr. Modan could certainly use an extra pair of hands for something. Now that she was horizontal, Selrir could barely keep her eyes open. She wrapped her fingers around his, her grip barely there but obvious nonetheless. He frowned at how chilled she still felt.

 

“We….we’re gonna talk abou’ this later..”

 

He hushed her and squeezed her hand gently. Soon enough she drifted off, aided by exhaustion and a healthy dose of pain meds. He let go of her hand for a moment to return to his stool, and took it once more in both of his hands. The only sound left was the creaking of his stool, and muted drafty noises of the Forge outside; the silence reminding him of his place here.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Little Pistol by Mother Mother
> 
> As per usual, comments/critique are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading! <3
> 
> Shout out to Loki for torturing all my children.


End file.
